GOLDSEA | ASIAN BOOKVIEW | FICTION

he Sino-American Theater was located on China Avenue in downtown Hualien, a scant few hundred yards down the street and around the corner from the city's red-light district. And that was where you would find Mercy Chapel, run by the aging mother of Dr Yun. It was a neighborhood where good coexisted comfortably with evil. The chapel door stood open all night long to give neighborhood sinners a shot at repentance. No wonder so many people visited the area time and again. You would, too, if you could taste the wicked delights of the flesh and the joy of salvation and rebirth in a single outing. But if you have the opportunity to come to Hualien these days -- for pleasure, not business -- don't waste time looking for Mercy Chapel or for Dr Yun's aging mother. You won't find them. Now, if you feel a need to seek repentance, I recommend walking a bit farther, say to a church on Sun Yat-sen Avenue or the one next to Taiwan Electric Company or that one at the foot of Huagang Mountain -- houses that have been filled with the spirit of God for ages. They are fine places to gain salvation and find Jesus.
     Mercy Chapel occupied about 300 square feet of single-story concrete building whose tile roof had begun to sprout clumps of green moss after a decade of weathering. Except for the rectory, where the pastor managed her affairs, the rooms were given over to fellowship, Bible study, prayer, and choir practice. When you passed beneath the words Mercy Chapel on the steel gate, you were confronted by a life-sized knotty-pine crucifix nailed to a limestone wall. Much of the red lacquer had peel away to reveal the original wood color, transforming what remained into drops of blood that threatened to stain a four-by-seven-foot speaker's platform below. A brand-new pulpit, donated by Sister Li two weeks before the events recounted here -- that is, three days before she was summoned by the Lord -- stood in front of the platform, and an organ donated by yet another female parishioner occupied an entire corner. Rows of high-backed wooden pews, so old and beat-up they seemed ready for the grave, fanned out all the way to the rear. The offering box by the door, on the other hand, was strong and dauntless as it dispensed powerful whiffs of guilt to all who passed by without stopping. But while the offering box was old yet sturdy, the bookcase behind it looked like a sickly old man about to topple over. The gilded Bibles, the hymnals, and the psalm books were brand new, all having been recently received through the mail from an overseas religious order. Alongside the rickety bookcase stood a small wooden door. Open it and walk ten feet or so, and you would reach an outhouse, one of those old-fashioned hole-in-the-ground types where, when you squatted down, the smell just about bowled you over; then you looked down and had a bird's-eye view of piled-up shit and swarms of wriggling maggots.

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